These fingers
by Happy Camper27
Summary: will play an aria of hope. And as you laugh, I will join you—and the world will be brought together. (Drabble-fic; pianist!Harry; slow build)
1. Music is a true art

_Music is a true art._

/

It was when Harry was seven that he discovered the joy of music.

He had been hiding from Dudley after school, and had stumbled into a room filled to the brim with strange looking… _things_ hung on the walls, or placed carefully on the floor.

He hid in the corner, hoping beyond hope that Dudley wouldn't see him if the overweight boy looked into the room. He heard heavy footsteps come up to the door, and he tensed. The footsteps paused, before continuing on, like nothing had ever happened.

Harry waited for a good five minutes, wondering if he was really safe. He didn't put it beyond his stupid cousin to do something so horrible as trick him into believing himself safe. Eventually, he uncurled and looked around the room.

The strange looking things caught his interest, but one in particular drew him in. It was large and black, gleaming in the sunlight from the window. He sidled up to the bench that sat in front of the glowing white keys and reached for them before freezing. He didn't want to break it—he would definitely be punished, very badly, for that. Uncle Vernon would probably lock him in his cupboard for a month if he did. He shuddered at the possibility.

"Would you like to play?"

The voice startled him. He whipped around, only to be greeted by the smiling face of one of the teachers. He stared at her, wide-eyed.

"It's alright, you know," she said lightly. "Here!" she sat on the bench, patting the spot beside her. "Sit, and we can play something!"

He sat down hesitantly, his short legs dangling above the floor.

"What would you like to play?" she asked. He shook his head, biting his lip and looking away. "Hm. How about Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star?" despite the fact that he didn't answer, she began to play, her fingers pressing the white keys.

Harry found himself captured by the sounds drawn from the instrument, watching in awe.

"Here, you try!" she cajoled, gently placing his right hand on the keys. "Just follow along!"

And together, they slowly plinked out the simple tune of Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.

As Harry left that room, with the teacher—Miss Lissa—making him promise to come back tomorrow after school, he thought about the sounds that had come from that incredible instrument. It still awed him, that a freak like him could draw such incredible sound from something so beautiful.

Harry vowed that he would go back the next day. And the day after. And the day after that.

He would learn to play that incredible instrument.

No matter what.


	2. It is a light for the soul

_It is a light for the soul._

/

It was with a light heart that day that Harry brought his Aunt the note that Miss Lissa had given him. After dinner that night, he handed it to her. He watched as her lips pursed as she read it, and felt his heart sink. Aunt Petunia wouldn't let him go again, he was sure; it was like she had said: freaks didn't deserve anything nice, not like Dudley, not like normal people.

"Go to your cupboard!" she snapped nastily, her face sharp and unhappy, like she was sucking on a lemon. Harry hung his head and slipped into the comforting darkness of his cupboard.

He wouldn't be allowed, he just knew it.

It wasn't until his Aunt had ushered Dudley off to bed—the heavy footsteps and complaining had notified Harry of this—that he heard it.

"Vernon, think of it!"

It was his Aunt's voice.

"I won't have it, Pet, I won't have it!" his Uncle said sharply.

"But think of it—if he's focused on music, on learning to play, then we may be able to knock more of that freakishness out of him!" she hissed. His Uncle paused. "Not only that, but he can go into competitions; I've heard from the neighbors that winners can even receive money as a prize!"

There was a silence.

"Fine," his Uncle grunted. "He can learn. But I'm not buying him one or paying for lessons."

Harry pulled away from the crack of his door, a smile growing on his face. He could go! They would let him learn to play!

It was with a light and happy heart that Harry fell asleep that night.


	3. It lifts the heart

_It lifts the heart._

/

Harry dashed to the room he had hidden from Dudley in, his feet sounding out an excited patter of sound. He came to a sharp stop in front of the shut door, panting, and knocked. The door opened, Miss Lissa smiling down at him.

"Here!" he said, handing her the note that Aunt Petunia had signed.

"Wonderful," she said, holding the door open for him. "Why don't we start?"

He turned to look at her as he entered, curious.

"You've learned the melody for Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, so why don't we start on the harmony? And then I'll test you tomorrow on it, okay?"

He nodded, walking carefully to the bench. That day he learned a lot—like the fact that the instrument he was learning to play was called a _piano_ , and that you played it with two hands, and he even learned about notes and started learning how to read sheet music!

Miss Lissa had given him a small red book of simple sheet music to practice reading, and said that even if he didn't have a piano at home, he could always practice hearing the notes in his head.

That night, while he was locked in his cupboard, he pulled down the tiny pocket flashlight he had found in the garbage and turned in on, careful not to let any light shine on the door. He pulled out the book Miss Lissa had given him, and began to practice.

He wanted to do his very best—he would be the best piano player ever!


	4. It can be the most wondrous of escapes

_It can be the most wondrous of escapes._

/

Harry sat at the piano, playing one of the set pieces for a competition he was to compete in in three weeks. It was a relatively simple piece—Bach's Minuet in G Major.

He had been playing for roughly six months, and Miss Lissa had finally said that he was ready to join a competition. She was running him through his paces, however, keeping him after school for an hour or more sometimes in preparation for the competition. When he had asked her if it was _really_ alright, she had just laughed and brushed it off, saying that she was happy to teach him.

His life at the Dursleys had gotten better; ever since Miss Lissa had started teaching him piano, Aunt Petunia had been giving him more food—he'd actually gotten a piece of toast with _jam_ on it, the other day!—and he had been punished less for things that before had been major infractions, such as singeing the bacon a bit.

Not only that, but Aunt Petunia had actually installed a light bulb in his cupboard so that he could read the sheet music Miss Lissa gave him!

Harry felt his face tighten as one of his fingers slipped, hitting an F natural where he was supposed to play an F sharp, but he ploughed on; Miss Lissa had told him that he was practicing _performing_ the piece right now, so he couldn't stop and go back to correct his mistake. All he could do was to grit his teeth, mark where he made the mistake, and keep going.

It was _really hard_ , Harry thought, to do that. He instinctively wanted to go back and correct it, to make it clear that it was a mistake, but he couldn't do that.

It was like Miss Lissa had told him: "Don't stop. Even if you make a mistake, don't stop. Keep smiling, and don't stop. The only people who are going to know, are you, me, and the Judges. And maybe a few people in the audience who know a bit about the pieces. Don't stop."

And it made sense—keep going, pretend it never happened, and most people won't even notice it did.

When they finally stopped, Harry's hands _ached_ horribly, and Miss Lissa walked him through some exercises to help with the ache. She smiled down at him, and sent him on his way.

Harry nearly skipped all the way back to Number 4, exuberant.

He wouldn't give this up, not for all the world.


	5. It drives passion and thrives off of it

_It drives passion and thrives off of it._

/

Harry fidgeted back stage, dressed in a neat, crisp, white shirt and black dress pants, covered by a black dress jacket. A slim black tie settled around his neck, and he tugged at it nervously.

In just a few minutes, he would be on stage, in front of a huge crowd, ready to perform the set piece for the first round, Bach's Minuet in G Major. He would sit down at the gorgeous piano on stage—a _Steinway & Sons_, it sounded absolutely _incredible_ —and he would place his hands on the keys. He would press down and draw the light, airy sounds from the instrument. He would play the piece, and he would play it the best that he could, with as few mistakes as possible.

He would make Miss Lissa proud of him, and when he finished, he would stand and bow, and they would clap. They would applaud him, and if he was really lucky he might get a hair ruffle from Miss Lissa afterwards.

And maybe, just maybe, Aunt Petunia would give him a smile, and Uncle Vernon would let him have more than just scraps that night.

Because he would do well. He would be one of the best, and he would make it to the final round. He had to believe that—because Uncle Vernon had told him in no uncertain terms that if he didn't, he wouldn't be allowed to continue playing piano.

The music that sounded from the stage stopped, and the audience's applause resounded through the walls. Eventually, it slowly stopped, and Harry took a deep breath. The girl who had been playing just before him smiled as she walked past him, her face red and sweaty, flushed with excitement and nerves and relief.

Harry walked on stage, and faced the audience. He dipped into a short, respectful bow, and settled into the piano bench, gently scooting it forward to compensate for his short arms.

He placed his sheet music on the stand, and placed his hands on the keys, feeling sweat trickle down his face from the heat of the stage lights, bright and hot above him. He breathed in deeply and closed his eyes, thinking of his goal briefly before clearing his mind of anything but the piano in front of him, and the music that he would be playing. Harry opened his eyes, emeralds flashing.

And he began to play.


	6. it is the soaring heights of joy

_It is the soaring heights of joy…_

/

Harry grinned as he sat tiredly on a bench outside of the concert hall. He was waiting for the results to be posted, relaxing and hoping for the best. His jacket was laid neatly beside him, and he leaned back as Miss Lissa sat down beside him, smiling broadly at him.

"You did wonderfully, Harry!" she congratulated him. He grinned bashfully back at her.

"Thanks, Miss Lissa!" he said, ducking his head to hide his reddening cheeks.

He thought back to when he had been on stage: it had all come so _easily_ , the notes had spilled from his fingers, flowing out and away like water, and he had been _lost_ in the music, unaware of the crowd and feeling so… _connected_ with _everything_.

It was like someone had reached out and taken his heart and mind and opened them up, letting him _feel_ everything around him.

He wasn't sure he really had the words to describe it, and when he told Miss Lissa, she had merely smiled down at him and said, "I know what you mean, Harry. I know what you mean."

They just sat there for a while, quietly enjoying each other's company, before a voice sounded over the sound system.  
"The results for the first round are now posted. The results for the first round are now posted."

The voice was static-y, and resounded sharply against Harry's ears, but he didn't care. He was up in a moment, and immediately moved towards the board where the results had been posted. He waited for the crowd around the slip of paper to clear before he stepped up to it, and looked for his name.

"What's the news?" Miss Lissa asked, standing beside him.

He grinned up at her, feeling so light and happy and everything seemed brighter all of a sudden.

"I made it to the second round!"


	7. and it is the fiercest of grief

… _and it is the hollowing sadness of the fiercest of grief;_

/

When Harry arrived back at Number 4 that night, he felt like he was walking on air. He had made it to the second round! He wondered if Aunt Petunia would congratulate him like she had Dudley when Dudley had come home with a C- instead of an F.

It wasn't to be, unfortunately.

Dudley, having gotten jealous of the attention Harry was receiving, had fibbed and said that Harry had stolen his pellet gun—which Dudley had sat on and bent the muzzle—and gotten Harry promptly thrown into his cupboard once he got home.

It was a harsh reminder of his place in the Dursley household. It had gotten better, but he was still an outsider, a _freak_.

And as he sat in his cupboard that night, his belly growling and feeling like it was gnawing at his backbone, he realized that he would never be like Dudley in the eyes of his Aunt and Uncle. He would always be the outsider, the _freak_ that they didn't want. No matter what he did, he would never earn their approval, no matter how hard he tried.

It surprised him how much that revelation hurt; he had known this before, known it and had accepted it. But he had thought…

…it didn't matter what he had thought. It wasn't relevant anymore.

So he hunkered down and waited for the night to pass, trying his best to ignore the emptiness of his belly and the sting of his new knowledge.

He didn't belong with the Dursleys, _would_ never belong and _had_ never belonged.

It made him wonder if he would ever find a place where he belonged and was accepted.

He didn't really think so. After all, he was a _freak_.


	8. It is the fire of fury

_It is the raging fire of tempestuous fury…_

/

Harry cringed away from the door to his cupboard, hearing his Uncle yelling furiously. He had done some _freakishness_ again, having turned his teacher's hair blue. Or, at least, that's what Dudley was saying.

The teacher had been belittling him, smirking as Harry blinked up at him blankly, having been broken from an imaginary practice of the rhythms of his next set piece for the second round. It was a difficult one for him— _Galop_ , by Dmitri Kabalevsky—and he had been deep in the mental practice when the teacher had called on him, jerking him back to reality, leaving him horribly disoriented.

As the teacher had been talking down at him, Harry had found himself growing more irritated as he became more coherent, realizing what was happening. It had just… _built_ until—the teacher's hair turned bright blue. And what puzzled Harry was that he had been at the very back of the classroom, the teacher at the front, and they still _blamed_ him for it.

Aunt Petunia said it was because he was a _freak_ , and _freaks_ were wrong, they didn't belong, and _freaks_ were hated by normal people.

But…wasn't Miss Lissa normal? _She_ didn't hate him, at least he didn't think so.

Stomping footsteps approached his cupboard door, and for a moment Harry indulged in a fantasy that he had thought he had long given up on—a family member, swooping in and saving him from the Dursleys, cradling him in their arms and keeping him safe from the pain and the hate and the _hurting_. He wondered vaguely if Miss Lissa was a long-lost family member, come to steal him away from the _hell_ he called a ' _home'_.

He didn't have time to dismiss that thought, for the cupboard door opened, and Uncle Vernon's meaty hand reached in, grabbing his hair roughly and dragging him out. He stifled a cry, the pain biting at him like white-hot needles in his scalp.

As the first blows landed, Harry curled up, trying desperately to swallow the involuntary cries and whimpers that were rising in his throat.

It was going to be a long night.

 **/End Note/**

 **Please note that the rating has been upped to T; I originally hadn't expected for this to turn so dark, but it has, so...please continue with caution. The abuse will mostly only be stated after the fact, and will get better in a few chapters (hopefully), but it will still be there. So, if you're squeamish about that sort of thing, please venture from this point onwards with care.**

 **Stay Awesome!**

 **~Happy Camper27**


	9. and the sharp tones of bravery

… _and the sharp tones of the fiercest of bravery._

/

The next day, Harry was forced to walk to school, attempting to conceal his limp, from where Uncle Vernon had twisted his right ankle, and his many bruises and welts, from where Uncle Vernon had hit him and lashed him.

According to Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, he deserved everything they gave to him—he _deserved_ the pain, the wounds. They said it _cleansed_ him, _purified_ him in the eyes of all that was good and normal, of the God that they seemed to believe was out there.

He didn't know very much about religion, particularly Christianity, but he didn't think the God that the pastor preached about in church every Sunday—when he was allowed to go, that is—would approve of his Aunt and Uncles ideas. After all, didn't God believe in kindness towards all, loving and caring all of his children? If that was the case, then why did his Aunt and Uncle say that he was evil, and that God would be pleased to see him hurt and burn and die?

He didn't understand it very well, but something rang _wrong_ about it all. He wondered what Miss Lissa would think if he told her what his Aunt and Uncle had told him, but he shuddered at the idea of what Uncle Vernon would do to him if he told. The last time someone had tried to get in Uncle Vernon's way of 'punishing' him, the man—Harry's first grade math teacher—had gotten himself arrested for _paedophilia_ , whatever _that_ meant.

It had only taught Harry that only harm came to those who tried to help him.

So he wouldn't let Miss Lissa get into such trouble; he'd fake being alright, and lie to her if necessary, just to keep her from trying to get in Uncle Vernon's way.

He might not believe what his Aunt and Uncle said, but he didn't want the few people who seemed to like him to vanish, leaving him dull and dark and despairing. Especially not Miss Lissa, who had brought him to the piano, to _music._

So it was with a heavy, determined heart that Harry entered school that day, fear making his heart pound and his determination harden every time someone glanced at him for walking oddly.

He was afraid, yes.

But he would protect Miss Lissa, no matter what.

 **/End note/**

 **Please do note, that nothing in this chapter is intended to offend. It sort of went off on its own, and I apologize if anyone takes offence to the Dursleys' interpretation of Christianity. It was not intended to offend, but rather to point out how the Dursleys' perceptions are warped by their hatred and contempt for anything they consider 'unnatural' and how they are using religion as a horrible** _ **excuse**_ **for their unspeakably cruel actions. The Dursleys are abusive a-holes in this, and the rating (as of the last two chapters) has been upped to a medium-high-to-high T, as I hadn't expected for this to take such a dark turn. Again, my apologies if this chapter offended anyone.**

 **Also, Vernon has connections, and is most certainly corrupt. Hence the math teacher example.**

 **Can you tell that I don't like the Dursleys?** _ **At all?**_


End file.
